Anon Posting Not Required Multiple Fills Encouraged
by Iwantthatcoat
Summary: In response to prompt:"Anon prompts left on Sherlock Kink Meme by Sherlock characters". It kind of exploded as Solrosan and I added multiple prompts and fills...all done in character (some have screen names they presumably created for themselves, and some prefer to remain anonymous). Then we added comments from the characters on the fills. Hard to describe- tons of fun to do!


**Casefic**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-22 11:40 am (UTC)

It has been quite some time since I have read a well-written casefic which is both interesting and plausible. Romantic subplot is unnecessary, but I suppose it would be acceptable if you feel you must- just make it intriguing, with no obvious tropes. No non-con, though dub-con is possible.

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-

** FILL:CASEFIC**  
Anappleaday  
2013-06-28 10:32 am (UTC)

I'm afraid it does start with a tiny bit of a trope, because all of the best stories do, you see, it can't be avoided. They all start with a dying king, a brother and sister raised by a jealous stepmother, an abandoned infant no one knows is of royal blood. It always starts with a tragedy. But don't despair, because the ending of this story is different than the standard fairy tale. The woodsman doesn't spring out of the forest with his trusty axe, cutting open the wolf's stomach, and out pops Grandmother- alive and whole. Oh, no. But the beginning, the beginning is always the same- and this time it starts with a prince.

The prince is alone in his room. He has read all the books on the wall-sized shelf, on a quest for something new. He doesn't care for the endings that are soooo easy to figure out. He wants to lose himself in the games of childhood, but he can't, because they are child's games and he no longer has the mind of a child. And he looks to the heavens, hoping to see gods in the stars (he has heard they live there) but he knows they are nothing but light- light that has taken so long to reach his eyes that its source might already be long gone. And they are so far away that they seem as if they are huddled close together, but, in reality, are so far apart that even if you were to travel up to the stars you wouldn't likely see one… just miles and miles of empty space. The only thing that is real, the only thing he is sure exists, are his own thoughts. And what dark thoughts they are. For who else thinks like he thinks, sees what he sees? Who indeed? So the prince does what other boys do, and wishes he could think like other boys think. Better to not think at all. Better to be simple and stupid and live a happy life, but it is not possible.

He is not alone in some high tower, this prince. There are people around him. He has love, of course he does. He knows his parents love him, he has heard them say it, and he knows a parent must love their child. There are people looking at him, people who would actually see him, so he carefully puts on a mask every morning (not a literal one, mind you- this is a fairy tale, so we must be clear about these things). He dons the finest clothes, styles his hair, fixes his exterior until his face is perfect, his body is perfect, his pain is undetectable. He doesn't look normal, no, not as dull as that- his goal is graceful, the serene surface of the lake, so others will see only a reflection on its surface and disregard the detritus lurking in its depths. It is exhausting. Sometimes it requires a bit of extra… energy. He does not expect understanding. He has read enough to know that your weaknesses become your strengths in time. He sees his lack of humanity as a weakness and he endeavors to turn it into strength- an impenetrable fortress of mind. Now he is no longer worse than the other boys, he is better. He is clever. He is so much closer to perfection.

** RE:FILL:CASEFIC**

(anonymous)  
2013-06 11:45 am (UTC)

This should be titled "The Case of the Missing Plot". I suggest you visit .com for assistance with your lack of coherency.

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** RE:FILL:CASEFIC**

(anonymous)  
2013-06-28 11:47 am (UTC)

Anon, I am very interested in hearing what Anappleaday has to say.

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**FILL:CASEFIC**  
Anappleaday  
2013-06-28 12:01 pm (UTC)

Oh, OP, did I bore you? Forgive me. Did you have a grandmother who would read you fairy tales? Probably not. Mine read them to me, and she would always make sure you understood a bit about the characters before you worked your way into the heart of the story. But I will speed it up, because time is precious.

He decides he is gallant, our prince. He is a hero—but he knows he is a hero only to glorify himself—there are no true heroes. He has no cause, save to prove he is better. That's too easy, and he is constantly in search of a worthy opponent. He is Atalanta…who never enjoyed winning the race, for she always knew she would win, but relished the running… the feel of the wind in her hair. When the finish line came, it was always a disappointment. That is not to say that the tasks he performs aren't exceptional. But he is no longer ignoring the world. Now he is making enemies.

I know, OP, you are bored and you want to know what the mystery is. And the mystery is, how do you burn the heart out of someone who doesn't think he has one? Do you know what the answer is to this little problem?

The prince has enemies now, so he, unbeknownst to him, also has comrades-in-arms, has allies, has friends? Has obligations to protect them. And then comes the magical part. He needs a bodyguard. He needs a servant. He needs someone to rule, for he is a prince and that is what princes do. And he finds a bodyguard-cum-servant. Did you like that term? Bodyguard-cum-servant. Don't be alarmed, this is not a crass story. No bodice-ripping for this prince, he is above that, because that's what ordinary people do, isn't it? This bodyguard-cum-servant is ordinary in many ways. Not like our prince. You are broken, Prince. You are broken and you don't want to fix yourself, because to do that, you would have to acknowledge, oh you pretty thing, that you were in fact broken, instead of evolved.

But his bodyguard-cum-servant is extraordinary too. He is equal parts healer and killer. A man of words and of actions. A hero in all the ways that our prince is not. Really, he shouldn't exist.

Surely, you remember Romeo and Juliet? But our prince, he doesn't pay attention to stars or to star-crossed lovers. He prefers chess to literature. Chess, where you defend the important pieces and make sacrifices to win. But the sacrifices aren't truly difficult. After all, if he can just get a pawn all the way across the board unnoticed, he can take back any piece he wants—bring it back to life. And he does. Oh, he is a masterful player and the beautiful part is, he does win the game and he does resurrect the piece from the dead, and his opponent's king does indeed fall. But our villain... our villan expected to lose this part of the game. Expected our prince to be clever. He lets him win. Our Prince does not know people are not like chess pieces. Even though the villain has long since exited the stage, Juliet will awaken from her false death, only to find her Romeo is truly dead at her feet. That is the ultimate checkmate. To have your opponent lose everything, in achieving their victory.

The answer to the puzzle: he will realize he has one when he rips it out of his own chest.

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**Re: FILL:CASEFIC**  
turneround  
2013-06-30 10:23 pm (UTC)

Oh! This is so poetic! Perhaps not really a case fic, but I don't care! It's beautiful.

Will there be more?

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**FILL: Working girl 1/?**  
sergeant  
2013-06-30 06:32 pm (UTC)

I saw that you already had a fill for this, hope another is ok.

-

DS Sally Donovan was the first from CID on scene. The room was already sealed off by a couple of constables and the forensic team had started processing the room. Very infrequent flashes from cameras went off and Donovan nodded greetings as she showed her ID and was let into the hotel room. The first thing Donovan noticed was that the floor was wet.

One of the constables – new guy, she had never seen him before – filled her in. The victim was a twenty-something woman, name Agniezska Symanski, preliminary said stabbing in the back. Found by someone from the hotel staff after the guest in the room under had complained that it was dripping through the ceiling.

_Thank God she didn't drown herself_, Donovan thought. Even after this many years on the job she still couldn't stomach the sight of a bloated corpse that had been in the water for too long.

Her partner, DS Jones, came shortly after Donovan had reached the body and exchanged greetings with Anderson who was down next to the body examining her fingernails.

Donovan gave Jones the bullet points like the constable had given her.

"Nice lingerie," Jones commented. Donovan cringed inside, but said nothing. Yes, the dead woman's underwear was nice, well over Donovan's pay, but so were the victims' diamond earring and her £100 manicure. But of course it was the sexy bra and the small knickers that Jones had to point out as his very first contribution to the case.

"Whoever did this has just walked straight in," Donovan said, pretending to not have heard the comment. "They found no signs of forced entry, and no murder weapon."

"So, what do you think?" Jones asks, taking a step away from the body, chipping with his shoe in the water puddles still covering most of the floor. "She's running a bath, doorbell rings, she opens and never gets a chance to turn the water off?"

Donovan shrugged. As good and as bad explanation as any at this point. Again, she's just happy the body was dry.

"Oh, you're here." Taylor from forensics came, showing a small evidence bag to Donovan containing a mobile. "Found this. It's dead – water damage, I presume – but I'm sure we can get something from the SIM-card."

"Good."

"And there's more," Taylor said, opening the drawer on the bedside table. It's filled with condoms and sex toys. Donovan and Jones exchange a look, and to Jones' credit he keeps he's moth shut this time.

"And we found this under the mattress." Taylor holds up a huge stack of bills.

"Working girl, then," Jones said, looking back at the dead girl. "That explains the push-up bra."

_Yes, because only working girls have push-up bras._

Donovan just nodded. Then she checked with Anderson when he thought the body would be ready, heard the constables about the names and contact information they'd taken from the witnesses and then they were on their way.

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** RE:FILL Working girl 1/?**  
(Anonymous)  
2013-6-30 07:00 pm (UST)

Ah, capital theory, Jones. Clearly, the victim opened the door and was promptly stabbed in the *back*. They should take pains to keep the new constable away from Anderson. If Jones' scintillating insights are anything to go by, Anderson's idiocy might very well be contagious.  
Please do continue.

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** FILL: Working girl 2/?**  
sergeantD  
2013-07-02 08:12 pm (UTC)

First on the list, obviously, the hotel staffer who had found the girl. He was as helpful as you would have expected and not late to bundle up all Eastern European girls and make them prostitutes. Even Jones rolled his eyes at that when they left, but at least the staffer knew a name, Yelena, and that she too was working the lobby of the hotel.

Yelena was a sweet girl. Donovan had been nervous that they wouldn't get anything out of her, escorts are seldom keen on speaking with coppers, and if you add to that that they might be in the UK illegally the chances of getting anything out of them are very slim. Yelena was an exception, though.

She told them that Agniezska (she corrected their pronunciation twice) had been in a different agency than she was. She didn't know what agency though, and she didn't have any name on any clients, just that Agniezska couldn't have received the money from an agency client, because those paid the agency directly.

"What do you recon?" Jones asked when they stopped on their way back to the Met for a coffee-to-go. "She blackmailed one of her johns?"

Donovan shrugged. "She wouldn't be the first."

"Perhaps she dreamt of a _Pretty Woman Rescue_ and then when the rich guy wouldn't rescue her she took matter into her own hands."

"Perhaps."

"That movie has really fucked it up for some girls," Jones said, shaking his head sympathetically.

_Yes, it's_ that movie _that screws prostitutes over._

-

DI Lestrade wasn't convinced with the embryo of a theory that they had when he stopped by their desks to catch up on where they were at. Killing someone, Lestrade rightly pointed out, almost always attracts more attention than some photos or rumours.

"She did hide the money for a reason, though," Donovan said. "Perhaps she was moonlighting?"

"And someone from the agency offed her?" Jones filled in.

Lestrade frowned. "Well, at least both of the theories give some sort of motive. Just don't zoom in too much on either of them before you have more to stand on."

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**Re:FILL:Working Girl 2/?**  
(Anonymous)  
2013-07-03 07:21 am (UTC)

Where was the body found? This is of utmost importance.

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**FILL: Working girl 3/?**  
sergeantD  
2013-07-03 10:51 pm (UTC)

When Donovan came to work the next morning Jones greeted her at the door with a cup of coffee and the message that they were wanted at the forensic lab down at Bart's. Apparently the autopsy was already done.

The pathologist, Dr Molly Hooper, went through the report with concerned interest: there were traces of spermicide and lubricants, she had obviously had sex but with a condom, some brushing but nothing to suggest that the act had been violent just… energetic.

"I remember 'energetic' sex," Jones said, smirking slightly. Donovan really wanted to ask him if he saw any of his mates in the room or if he actually was aware that he was alone with three women – one of whose murder he was supposed to investigate.

Dr Hooper cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable, before she went on with her list. Signs of previous, but cleared, STIs – chlamydia, herpes, the usual. No HIV. Digestion of her stomach content placed ToD at around 8 PM.

"Then there was one other thing," Dr Hooper said, putting down the report to turn the body and exposing the stab wound. "When the knife went in, it hit one of her ribs. Normally you'd expect the knife to stop or to even break the rib, but this blade sort of… bent."

"Bent?"

"Yes, bent," Dr Hooper said again, putting down the body again. Donovan wasn't sure what she had expected them to be able to see from the back of the dead woman.

"You have no idea what sort of weapon it was?"

"A very flexible knife," Dr Hooper said. "A fillet knife, maybe. There was no traces of anything in the wound and it's a classic stab wound other than—"

"—the bending. Yes."

"I'll fax over the report," Dr Hooper said. "Tox will be done in a few hours."

-

"So you have just about nothing?" Lestrade asked them just after lunch.

"Forensics is still working on the DNA from the crime scene," Jones said. "But that room saw _a lot_ of people."

"We have the bendy knife," Donovan said.

"Which you still haven't found. What about the SIM-card?"

"Still nothing," Jones said. "But we've almost found her agency. Or at least who pays for the room she's using. See the hotel is owned by an investment company which rents out entire floors to other companies and partners and such. Our floor is rented by a holding company, which has three daughter companies they allow to use it. One of which rents Agniezska's room to a company called Kensington Bells."

"I'd thought you'd never get to the point," Lestrade muttered. "Off you go."

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**FILL: Working girl 4/?**  
sergeantD  
2013-07-09 11:27 pm (UTC)

There wasn't any trouble getting to see the manager of Kensington Bells, not after they had accepted that it was just a dating firm and what then happened between two consenting adults blah, blah, blah. Donovan had to fight a frown, but the escorting part of this wasn't their business. It was the murder.

"I heard about Agniezska," the manager said after greeting them. "Terrible."

"Knew her well, did you?" Jones asked.

"No, but when one of your employees dies…" The manager shook his head. "It's terrible."

"Do you know if she had any clients who were rough? Or had she reported any incidents?"

The manager shook his head. "No, nothing like that."

"We'd still need a list of all her clients from Monday night."

"She didn't work Monday night," the manager said. "Whoever she saw, it must have been personal."

"Financial statements from all your customers over the last three months will do, then," Donovan said.

"You need a warrant for that," the manager said. "And seeing how you're not waving it around I'll assume you don't have one. We're a legit business. We just arranges meeting. No coercion. Whatever happens—"

"—between two consenting adults, yes. We've heard it." Jones said. "You know, even without a warrant we could always start an investigation of your company. I mean, real forensic detail. Takes _months_. We'll find out just how much of that 150 pounds that you charge per 'meeting' goes back to the girls." Jones took a dramatic pause. "Then let's see how much it's not coercion."

Donovoan had to look away to not smirk at the highly unprofessional threat that got them exactly what they needed.

-

The list was they received was long and they split it up between each other to comb through it and see if anyone stood out. They spread out in a conference room back at the station and were just about to order takeaway when Lestrade stopped by with sandwiches and coffee in exchange for an update.

There wasn't much new to tell, but at least they had managed to compile a list of six clients that they wanted to look closer at. Lestrade seemed pleased because he left them the food and ordered them both to go home and sleep before starting to track down the names on the list in person.

"You know…" Jones started to say something after Lestrade had left them alone.

"Know what?" Donovan asked since he never finished the sentence, but Jones just shook his head and went back to going through the last pages of his list, looking very bothered by something.

When they cleared the table an hour later they had added a seventh name to the list.

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** FILL: Working girl 5/?**  
sergeantD  
2013-07-11 08:54 pm (UTC)

They started early the next morning. Donovan picked up Jones at his flat and they drove to the first name on the list. For a sense of tact – which arguably many in the police force lacked – they had decided to start and end the day with the men who didn't have families. It wasn't up to them to bring up questions about infidelity and it was therefore better to confront the family men at work rather than in their homes.

The first man on the list cried when they told him Agniezska was dead. Apparently he was in love with her and under the impression that she had been in love with him. Donovan and Jones just shook their heads as they left him, scratching him off the list of suspects.

The second man they also left in a state of mild shock, but this time the shock more likely steamed from being questioned by the police rather than the fact that his favourite prostitute had been murdered. He was able to present an alibi though, consisting of train tickets and conference notes.

The third one, the first family man, they met up with outside his office building and had a chat over lukewarm, paper cup tea. He flatly denied having ever visited a prostitute, in the UK, he admitted to seeing one in Amsterdam in his youth. Donovan wondered how that would somehow be better, but kept her mouth shut. When presented with the financial statements he went pale, stuttered an excuse and left them. Throwing away their bad tea Donovan and Jones concluded that that man definitely was still on the list.

The fourth one, the second family man, tried to convince them that his card had been stolen around the date he would have bought a prostitute. The line was so obvious and so poorly delivered that Donovan, on a whim more than an anything else, asked him to stop by later for a DNA test. When they left Jones bumped her with his shoulder, asking if he wasn't the one who was supposed to be the 'bad cop' out of the two of them.

The fifth one they missed at work. His secretary told them he had gone home to take care of his son because his wife had had to go to Milton Keynes to pick up something for her business. The son, the secretary told them in confidence, had cerebral palsy. Donovan and Jones wondered if it was a good idea to visit him at his home or wait until tomorrow. They decided to see if they were up for another visit after they had ticked off the two last names on the list.

The sixth one, last family man, also denied having been to a prostitute at first. The more they pressed him though, the more came up and in the end Donovan and Jones didn't know quite what was up or down anymore. The man, assuring them about how much he loved his wife about once a minute, seemed to have visited every girl Kensington Bells had to offer. When they left they decided to look deeper into that to see if all the dropped names were just smokescreens or if the man was telling them the truth.

The last one on the list admitted with a deep sigh that he had been seeing Agniezska on a regular basis after they had pressed him with the financial evidence. He also admitted that he used to see Agniezska 'off the books' on occasion. On the question if he had seen her recently he said no, but he had nothing to back that up and Jones didn't like something in his attitude and asked him in for a DNA test the next morning.

"Do you feel as dirty as I do?" Jones asked as they got back into Donovan's car.

"Probably." Donovan took up a coin. "Heads we'll go and visit Mr Father-of-the-Year tonight, tails we'll go for greasy food."

"How about heads we'll go for greasy food, tails we'll go for greasy food?"

Donovan smiled and flipped the coin. "Tails. Greasy food it is."

"Perfect," Jones said.

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** Re: FILL: Working Girl 5/?**  
(anonymous)  
2013-07-14 02:46 am (UTC)

Since you insist on refusing to provide critical details about the placement of the body in your story, you force me to solve this case through other means.

Your continued use of "Jones" as a foil to your noble-and-ever-so-put-upon female lead tells me your poor victim, no doubt a hooker-with-a-heart-of-gold, was killed by a woman. Yes, yes, a woman can even kill as well as a man (and for less pay, too).

Giving the victim a social disease just for reader's interest, are we? Perhaps a plot device to set up a motive for revenge. Let's look to that other little irrelevant detail... the child with cerebral palsy. How nice of the secretary to have provided us with that random fact.

So, now that TORCH diseases are in play, a wife's revenge becomes a convenient motive. We are to kindly ignore the fact that this occurs in approximately 5% of all cases of cerebral palsy, and similar effects can be achieved by eating brie or changing cat litter, but now we have a wife with revenge on her mind and a handy fillet knife in their hands. How delightfully ironic that the murder weapon came from the kitchen.

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**Johnlock First Time**  
Iveabadship  
2013-06-23 09:35 pm (UTC)  
Under Sherlock's cold, hard exterior is a very sweet and vulnerable man, and John has sensed this ever since they first met. Can I get their first kiss, and a bit of romance, maybe some domestic fluff at 221B?

**John "Three Continents" Watson**  
Doctorwho  
2013-06-23 12:47 pm (UTC)  
John and anyone… please.

**I'll Be There (Hurt/Comfort Post-Reichenbach)**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-24 1:48 am (UTC)  
An injured Sherlock turns to Molly for help, realizing she is the only one who he can turn to in his time of need. After helping him fake his death, they run off to the Continent together, living as husband and wife. They have many adventures travelling from country to country on the run.

Bonus: Sherlock teaches Molly French!

**Sex Pollen at The Yard**  
4NSEX  
2013-06-24 3:07 am (UTC)  
Sex pollen at a crime scene. Orgy! Bottom!Sherlock. Orgasm denial.

**M/M Slash**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-24 5:42 am (UTC)  
Sherlock is more interested in sex than he had previously thought, and seeks out advice (lessons?) from a more experienced, older friend.

**Redemption**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-24 7:56 am (UTC)  
Sherlock and Mycroft have been secretly working together to defeat Moriarty and his vast network, ever since their lengthy phone call at Baskerville. Mycroft feeds Moriarty false information regarding Sherlock's past, and helps Sherlock arrange his "death". Sherlock confides in Mycroft to keep a close watch on John. Mycroft, indeed, has John under surveillance, and, seeing his grief, convinces him to take on a special project to serve queen and country and help himself heal. Sending John off to an ancestral Holmes family estate in the Loire Valley, Mycroft obtains information on the whereabouts of Moran, Moriarty's last remaining henchman. He arranges for Sherlock and John both to break into the same estate at the same time to procure vital information (unbeknownst to each other). They have a touching reunion, and John is amazed that he has so underestimated the Holmes brothers' ability to rise above petty grievances and misjudged Mycroft's character. John/Mycroft, Johnlock or even a version of all three if tastefully done - author's choice.

**Fat!Sherlock**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-24 7:58 am (UTC)  
Sherlock gains weight. A lot of weight.

**FemJohn and FemSherlock**  
thewhiphand  
2013-06-24 11:30 am (UTC)  
Lots of sexytimes. D/S

**Re: FemJohn and FemSherlock**  
DoctorWho  
2013-06-24 12:36 am (UTC)  
Seconded!

-

** FILL: Orchid 1/2**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-29 03:42 am (UTC)

I apologise for the possible errors, I wrote this on my phone.

"Your safe word is 'orchid'," Joan says.

Sherlock nods in confirmation. The safe word was established many sessions ago, but Joan always starts by repeating it. Sherlock doesn't know why, or even if she appreciates the constant repetition of the obvious, but it has become their starting signal and hearing Joan say 'orchid' (no matter where they are) awakes something in her.

This time Sherlock is in the bathroom, getting ready for bed. The situation is obvious, but convenient, and oh, so longed for. Sherlock smiles, it's almost three weeks since the last time and she feels like throwing her toothbrush rush to the bedroom right away. She doesn't, obviously, and just keeps brushing. The irregularity (and sometimes excruciatingly long waits) between the session is one of the best things about their dynamic.

Sherlock loves to long for it.

"Spit."

Sherlock obeys as Joan walks up to her, takes the toothbrush from her, and leads her to bedroom.

"Undress."

"In any particular order, Captain Watson?"

"The usual."

Sherlock smiles, letting the dressing gown fall to the floor before taking off her t-shirt and pyjama bottoms.

"Knickers, too."

"Yes, Captain Watson."

Sherlock does as she's told (she hadn't planned on stopping) and stands completely naked in front of the still fully dressed Joan. Joan looks at her lover's body and steps closer. She places her fingertips on Sherlock's collarbone, lightly moving her fingertips down between Sherlock's breasts, giving Sherlock goose-bumps over her entire body.

Sherlock can see Joan's hand trembling slightly in excitement, wishing that she would be allowed to touch her partner, but it was established a long time ago that she isn't. Not yet.

"Turn around," Joan whispers in Sherlock's ear, arousal clear in her voice.

As soon as her back is towards Joan, Joan places a ribbon over Sherlock's eyes. It feels like cotton, so probably the red ribbon they have used many times before. Sherlock's pulse is elevated, her breath a little faster than usual, and the adding of the ribbon makes her insides drop with expectation. By removing her eyesight Joan makes Sherlock completely hers. No touching, no looking, no examining.

Joan's forces her to stand wider by inserting a hand between her legs, wrapping her other arm around Sherlock's chest. Sherlock can feel Joan's breasts through the t-shirt she's frustratingly enough still wearing. Sherlock is already wet, her clitoris sensitive and filled with blood, and her breath hitches as Joan starts to slowly move two fingers over it.

"God, you're hot," Joan whispers behind her, pressing herself closer and mimicking the motion she does between Sherlock's legs on her nipple. It takes all the willpower in the world for Sherlock to remain still and not rock her hip to increase the frequency of the stimuli on her clitoris. It makes her practically tremble, and she bites her lip hard.

"Easy," comes Joan's voice and she retreats her hand, still keeping the one on Sherlock's breast slowly moving.

Sherlock closes her eyes, letting go of a deep breath, her shoulders and head falling down slightly. She can hear Joan sucking her fingers, making her insides twist into an ever tighter knot than they already are.

"You taste so damn good," Joan says, running her wet fingers along Sherlock's spin. She moves the long, dark hair and kisses her between the shoulder bales.

Joan moves her hand from Sherlock's breast to her hip and slowly turns her around. Sherlock reaches out, partly to ensure her balance, but mostly to get more contact with Joan. She finds her waist, still hidden under the annoying fabric, but warm and full nonetheless.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock removes her hand right away. She still doesn't have permission to touch.

"Good girl," Joan murmurs against her neck.

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** FILL: Orchid 2/2**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-29 03:47 am (UTC)

Sherlock skips a breath, and probably a heartbeat, and she can feel Joan smiling as she kisses her. Joan moves her backwards, slowly, until her legs touches the bed.

"Sit."

Joan steps between her legs, leaning down to kiss her. Sherlock answers it eagerly, her hands going for Joan's face before she realises it and lets them fall down to the bed again.

Joan chuckles against her lips. "Will I be forced to tie you up tonight?"

A jolt of excitement rushes through Sherlock by the mere threat, but she clenches her fists and shakes her head.

"Good girl," Joan says again.

Sherlock finally hears the sound of Joan removing her t-shirt. She clenches her fists even harder to keep herself from touching. She holds her breath as she listens to Joan taking off her trousers and knickers as well, and suddenly Joan is standing completely naked between her legs. She knows it, but beside the small skin contact – thigh against thigh – she has no way to confirm it.

"Breathe, Sherlock," Joan whispers as she leans closer to kiss her again. "Now up in the bed."

Even though it's an order Joan helps Sherlock, guiding her so that she won't be too close to the edge. Sherlock runs her hand along one of Joan's arms and gets away with it. It's a victory and a pity at the same time.

Joan is next to her, still keeping the infuriating distance while still being so incredibly close. Sherlock gets goose-bumps as Joan caresses her belly with her fingertips for what feels like forever. Sherlock arches her back and after a moment of hesitation Joan obliges the silent prayer and moves her hand down between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock sucks in air and arches further. Joan's moves her fingers slowly, lifting one leg to put it over Sherlock's, who _finally_ gets proper skin-to-skin contact. Joan is hot, wet, against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock bites her lip, desperately gripping the sheets to keep control of her hands.

Joan grinds against her thigh as she tries, and fails, to keep the pace with her fingers. Sherlock wants to tell her to just _focus_ but the steady brushing of Joan's breast against her torso is worth the infrequent clitoral stimulation.

Almost.

Sherlock bangs her hand in the mattress, making a long, almost plagued sound.

"Breathe, Sherlock," Joan says, taking her hand off her clitoris to give her some time to catch her breath.

Joan kisses her. "Touch me."

Sherlock lets go of a relieved sound, taking both her hands and putting them on Joan's cheeks. She kisses her eagerly, lifting herself off the mattress and not letting Joan go.

"God… Fuck…" Joan pants when she gets her lips back. She sucks Sherlock lower lip as Sherlock sinks back down to the mattress. "I'm glad I didn't tie you up."

Sherlock smiles and opens her mouth for another kiss as Joan sets down her knee between her legs and starts to grind slowly again. Sherlock lifts and tilts her hip, so that each move Joan makes brushes her thigh against her clitoris.

"Joan…" Sherlock moans, wrapping his free leg around Joan's body. "Fu— Yes. Fuck."

Joan increases the speed. Sherlock feels she's getting close, her nails digging down deep in Joan's shoulders. She doesn't want to come quite yet, she wants another moment with Joan's sweaty, hot body this close. She wants to stay a little bit longer in this moment, blindfolded and under Joan's control.

She wants it to go on just for another moment.

"Jo-Joan- Jo-"

"Sherlock," Joan pants against her neck.

Sherlock moans, arching her back and giving up trying to extend the moment. Joan keeps whispering her name until she comes with a chocked up sound, clinging tightly to Joan. She keeps holding on even after her orgasms ends. Joan comes a short moment later with Sherlock's name halfway out of her moth.

"Fuck," Joan whispers, still with her face next to Sherlock's neck, as her orgasms ebbs out. "God damn, Sherlock."

Sherlock nods, drowsily responding to a kiss before Joan pulls the ribbon from Sherlock's eyes.

"Hi."

"Hello." Sherlock reaches out and touches Joan's face with her fingertips. "Can I look at you now?"

Joan nods and kisses Sherlock again before slowly forcing herself up. She runs her fingers through her hair, sliding one leg over Sherlock's hips so that she straddles her to really let Sherlock look at her again.

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** RE:FILL: Orchid 2/2**

thewhiphand  
2013-06-29 5:52 am (UTC)

Oh, that was lovely. Mustn't let the boys have all the fun.  
I especially liked the bit about it being a "victory and a pity at the same time". (Sherlock was quite the good girl, wasn't she... *almost* a pity she wasn't a bit more wicked.)  
Thank you for the fill.

_Edited at 2013-06-24 10:01 pm (UTC)_

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** RE:FILL: Orchid 2/2**

Doctorwho  
2013-06-29 12:47 pm (UTC)  
Wow! That was...well, that was very good. You write John and Sherlock very well. Very well.

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** RE:RE:FILL: Orchid 2/2**

Doctorwho  
2013-06-29 12:47 pm (UTC)  
I mean Joan and Sherlock. Sorry. Can't figure out how to edit this damn thing. JOAN and Sherlock. Very good.

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** RE:RE:RE:FILL: Orchid 2/2**

(anonymous)  
2013-06-30-13:52 pm (UTC)

Doctorwho, should you, in future, wish to edit a post, there is an icon of a pencil with a rather prominent eraser on it in the blue area to the right of the time you entered your post. Click on it, and you may edit freely- though I don't much see the point of your doing so at this time, as most people have seen both your original comment and your correction by now. There is also a red 'X' in that same location with which you may delete your post entirely. Again, as most have seen your post, it is of little value to you in this instance.

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** RE:RE:RE:RE:FILL: Orchid 2/2**

Doctorwho  
2013-06-30 13:55 pm (UTC)

Thank you.

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**Enough is Enough**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-24 1:20 pm (UTC)  
John has had enough of Sherlock's cockblocking and mocking his dates and decides to move in with his next girlfriend. She makes him forget all about Sherlock. No crack. Would like this to be from John's point of view.

**Marriage Proposal**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-24 6:50 pm (UTC)  
Five times John tries to propose to Sherlock when an important case interrupts them—and one time Sherlock interrupts a case to take John to dinner and propose to him.

**Stockholmes Syndrome**  
Anappleaday  
2013-06-25 8:00 am (UTC)  
Sherlock has been watching Jim very closely ever since hearing of his existence from Jefferson Hope and is becoming increasingly fascinated by him. He attempts to infiltrate his network and, although he is discovered almost immediately, Jim does not let on and allows Sherlock to work for him. Sherlock begins to wish he could get closer to Jim to learn his secrets, and what makes him tick. 100% Consensual.

** Re: Stockholmes Syndrome**  
(anonymous)  
2013-06-25 9:36 am (UTC)  
interesting concept

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** FILL: Stockholmes Syndrome**  
(anonymous)  
2013-07-07 8:50 am (UTC)

Anappleaday,I wanted to attempt a quick fill, as I have no pressing engagements at the moment. While it does not fill every aspect of your prompt, it does address some of them. Hopefully, it will satisfy you until someone decides to submit a work within your parameters. I don't know if you will get exactly what you want.

************************************************** **************  
London's criminals are, on the whole, an unimaginative lot. I've given thought to joining them from time to time. Some days, I am rather sure I would make an excellent one- a burglar, perhaps. To give credit where it is due, Moriarty knows me well enough to sense when it is precisely boring enough to consider a shift in allegiance.

Some say John is my moral compass, and they would be right. If I am ever in doubt about the "proper" way to approach a situation, or what politeness or protocol dictates, I have John, just as I had Mycroft before him. John doesn't track me near as carefully as Mycroft once did, and it doesn't take long for me to find one of Moriarty's lesser men recruiting at one of the more unsavory parts of town. A little spirit gum, a change of stance and clothing, and I'm assured of not being recognized. Days later, I'm part of a group expedition to burn down a warehouse. Petty stuff, surely, but I'm focusing in on who is the burn man, who reports when the mission is complete, and (this is of greatest concern) who they report to. The middlemen of any organization are the weakest link in the chain- and I convince myself I am doing this because this is useful information to have.

The next one is a drug deal. Dull. I suspect Moriarty is very aware of my presence, that the job was even chosen with me in mind. He is watching me watching him. There is another job next week, involving retrieving papers from a safe in a private home. I must admit, I am very much looking forward to seeing how a top-notch safecracker works. My study of the art is sufficient for most scenarios, but lacks finesse; it pains me to admit it.

My moral compass is at a medical conference in Edinburgh, and I am taking the time to finish a new composition, a last ditch attempt to stave off the boredom without resorting to another solution, when I hear the lower door open and feet climbing my seventeen steps. I know it's him, just like I knew it was him after the trial, making his way up my stairs. I am glad it is him. He is, at the very least, unpredictable. I put down my bow to better focus on his pacing, his tread, but before I can categorize much, I hear the steps recede and the door close as he walks away. Very well, it is my turn to follow him in our little game. I do.

I tail him for the better part of the day, as he watches a movie, stops by a florist to purchase a single red rose, orders two cups of coffee and sits at an outside table at a café, and then departs in a cab, leaving behind one empty cup and one full one on the crisp, white table cloth. The rose is resting on the table as well, with a card that says

"Thank you, Sherlock. I had a wonderful time. Love, Jim XXX.

PS: I'll tell Moran to fire you. Can't abide by interoffice romance."

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** RE: FILL Stockholmes Syndrome**  
Anappleaday  
2013-07-07 9:43 am (UTC)

How disappointing- I don't get to read about their third date! I guess I'll just have to imagine it myself.

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